Obviously, I heard nothing. To have heard something would have been far too easy. The interview had gone well, Onyx wanted more staff and I wanted to work with Onyx; it would seem, therefore, to have been a relatively simple matter to resolve. A week went by, followed very, very slowly by another one, but there was no response. I always find it difficult to know what to do for the best in these situations. Should I wait a week and then give the company a call, or would such a move appear as though I was pestering and so be a negative factor? Or should I call after a scant few days, to reaffirm my interest in the job and to remind them of who I am? Should I wait two weeks before calling? Is three weeks too long, by which time they’ve offered the job to someone else, someone keener, someone who bothered to phone two weeks earlier? How time drags when you are waiting for something to happen. My move to BMW had been done and dusted in less than two hours. I met Andrew Weston, the service manager, for coffee at ten o’clock, he showed me the workshops and explained how the service department operated; we chatted about money, and at midday when I left him it was with a verbal agreement that the job was mine, a start date and an assurance that a contract would be in the post to me the same afternoon. It arrived the following day; throughout my time with them I was to discover that such swift efficiency was a BMW trademark.
I decided to think and remain positive. I would wait for a while longer before calling Onyx and, in the meantime, I would reapply to another team as well. For two reasons I decided that Benetton would receive another letter from me. The team was based in Witney, north Oxfordshire, which meant that Benetton was the closest team to home, and I’d managed to discover the name of the chief mechanic. This was a bonus, allowing me to write to a real person as opposed to my previous applications which were addressed either to ‘Dear Sir’ or ‘For the attention of the team manager’. He was called Nigel Stepney, and it was to him that I posted another copy of my CV and a rewritten letter of introduction, neatly penned and presented within a glossy, new display folder (I had bought a packet of them shortly after my Onyx trip).
I had included an extra line in my letter too: ‘following on from a recent conversation where an interest was expressed in my transverse gearbox experience, I have enclosed a copy of my CV for your perusal. I would be delighted to attend your office for an interview at any convenient time.’ I hadn’t spoken to Nigel before, but what I had written was true enough: there had been a conversation about my gearbox experience (with Greg, at Onyx); I had enclosed a copy of my CV and I would, most certainly, be delighted to attend for an interview. There was a possibility, I thought, that adding this extra line might prompt Nigel to contact me sooner rather than later. ‘Has someone asked this chap to send his details through to me personally? Perhaps this is just who we’ve been looking for? Maybe I should see him before he gets snapped up by another team? I should contact him today; this very morning!’ It was worth a go. Possibly my letter was a mite forward and the wording may have contained a modicum of ambiguity, but if it helped to get me through the Benetton doors for an interview I could then explain who it was I had chatted with about transverse boxes. Getting the interview in the first place, that’s the difficult thing; the clarifying of details can always be done over coffee and biscuits when the desired meeting is actually in progress.
For those lucky enough to already be working in Formula One, the 1989 season was swiftly drawing to a close. On the Sunday afternoon that I wrote to Benetton, the Grand Prix circus had assembled in Estoril for round thirteen of the World Championship. I remember watching the race on TV, and while I was checking the spelling and grammar of my new application letter, the mechanics were leaving the grid as the drivers set off on their formation lap. It was to be a memorable Grand Prix, well, at least it was for me.
The race was well over half run with Mansell’s Ferrari leading from Berger in the other 640 and the two MP4/5 McLarens of Senna and Prost, the two Championship protagonists. On lap thirty-nine, Mansell stopped for tyres but for some reason he overshot the Ferrari garage on his way down the pit-lane. He pulled up and waited to be moved back, but total confusion broke out amongst the mechanics as they debated what they were and were not allowed to do in such a situation. Were they forbidden to touch the car in its present position, leaving the driver to reverse with the risk of hitting any mechanics hidden from view behind the rear wing, or was it against the regulations to select reverse gear in the pit-lane? Should the mechanics pull the car back, or was it an infringement of the rules to undertake any work beyond their designated pit area? Was it the case that only the circuit marshals were allowed to move a stranded car? Was the car stranded? Certainly no one would expect the marshals to have a comprehensive understanding of Grand Prix regulations – they are all local volunteers, not FIA employees – so the team couldn’t count on them for a correct ruling on the matter. Arms flapped, some mechanics rushed forward, some backed away. In the end, by selecting reverse and pottering backwards, Mansell made the decision himself. The mechanics regrouped and renewed the tyres before dispatching Mansell back into the race. With no harm done, an innocent and accidental situation had been rectified by the driver. Mansell was immediately disqualified from the race. ‘Whilst in the pit-lane a car cannot be driven in reverse under its own motive power.’ The FIA informed Ferrari of their decision to banish car number 27 from the event, inviting the team to call their driver into retirement, thus saving both team and driver the ignominy of the black flag and the public humiliation of being so brazenly evicted from the Grand Prix.
However, Mansell – now dog-fighting with Senna for second place – ignored the radio and the pit-board messages from his team, later claiming that he was concentrating on Senna’s driving so much that he wasn’t aware of anything else. This left the race officials no choice but to show Mansell the black flag, and this was duly unveiled and shown to him above the start/finish line (along with a board displaying his car number). He ignored that too. The next lap he did exactly the same. I couldn’t believe what I was watching! How could a driver of Mansell’s calibre blatantly ignore such a stringent order? The issues and arguments that lead the FIA to find it necessary to display the black flag may be open to many long and multi-sided debates, but these debates can only take place after the event. It is utterly pointless to argue the rights, the wrongs and the mitigating circumstances at the same time as the flag is being unfurled. The black flag means game over; no ifs, no buts. Finished. A driver or team may try to defend their actions and contest any imposed penalty at the post-race inquiry (though I cannot recall a single successful appeal being lodged against an FIA ruling), but to dishonour the black flag and drive on is simply asking to suffer greater and greater penalties.
Mansell drove down the pit-straight and ignored the flag for a third time. He was very close to Senna’s rear wing now, poised to make his move on the McLaren. During this lap Ron Dennis tried to make radio contact with Ayrton, telling his driver to yield to Mansell’s Ferrari, as there was no reason to race against a disqualified car. Apparently Senna struggled to hear the message and asked his boss to repeat the message. But by then it was too late; Mansell made his move, dashing down the inside of the McLaren. As the pair of cars approached the corner Ayrton stayed true to his racing line and the gap that Mansell had bolted towards quickly melted away. The cars collided and instantly the McLaren’s right-rear suspension was destroyed; both cars were out of the race.
The consequences were far-reaching, and with Senna still chasing Prost for the Drivers’ Championship he should never have been fighting with a car that had been disqualified several laps prior to their shunt. The whole situation struck me as being quite bizarre. Why hadn’t Mansell responded to his radio, his pit-board or the flag? Why hadn’t Ayrton been informed of Mansell’s disqualification as soon as the situation became clear? Indeed, why hadn’t Senna seen the black flag and the number of the car that had been disqualified and realized himself that Mansell’s race was effectively over? Surely, Ayrton must
have noticed the black flag? After all, until he had identified the number of the car to which the penalty applied there was a possibility that the flag was being shown to him for some reason. Yet the details of what was happening and the facts of the dilemma between Mansell and the FIA officials obviously weren’t clear to him.
Mansell was later fined $50,000 and banned from participating in the next race. His explanation was that he was concentrating so hard on following Senna that he never heard his radio, and because of strong sunlight he never saw the pit-board and never saw the flag. And Senna was also unsure about what was happening on the start/finish line that day. I watched that Estoril Grand Prix completely fascinated by all the confusion and misunderstanding between the mechanics, the team managers and the drivers. Also, what of the race officials’ inability to impose their black flag disqualification? How were they proposing to stop Mansell if he hadn’t stopped himself by shunting into the McLaren? It became clear to me that day that the orchestration of Formula One wasn’t note-perfect after all.
That night I mailed my letter, and on my way back from the post-box I called into the Boat for a Sunday evening beer. I thought about these questions and came to the conclusion that the whole black flag procedure was totally inadequate. The basic facts of what had happened in Estoril proved it too. At that time, Nigel Mansell and Ayrton Senna were among the very top of the world’s élite racing drivers, the crème de la crème; both talented and gifted with natural speed and superb reactions. Yet neither of them – apparently because of the sun – saw the black flag which the officials were showing the Ferrari driver; certainly Mansell would have been in no doubt about the severity of the penalty for ignoring it. We must, therefore, believe them and assume that they simply did not see it. The marshals, stationed at numerous posts around the perimeter of the track, each have a full set of flags, and any visual communication is passed on from post to post. However, the officials’ procedure for instant disqualification only allows for a solitary flag to be displayed, shown above the start-line, a place where the drivers would normally never look, and if the sun is streaming towards them then they will never see it. Throughout the duration of the whole lap the drivers are subjected to only one, momentary flash of the flag as the cars scream past; but if the marshals’ posts were all issued with a set of numbers and a black flag, then the message could be clearly and continually displayed to the intended driver on each and every lap until he responded. It would seem a simple answer.
Whatever solution the FIA finally decided upon, I reasoned, I felt certain that any potential future problems arising out of a lack of clear communication between the race officials and the drivers would be swiftly addressed. Surely, the governing body of such a prestigious sport wouldn’t allow a repeat of such a farcical situation to occur in the years ahead, would they? Time for bed; leaving the chatter and the hoppy smell of the pub behind me I headed off home.
I don’t know the reasons for their swift reply but just over a week after posting my CV another white, business envelope lay on the hall carpet. Benetton Formula Ltd had written back. On the envelope, a little green bunny rabbit hopped next to the company name. A small detail – no bigger then an inch long – but I took the inclusion of this little rabbit as a sign that this team was just a bit different from the rest. It seemed to imply a slight tongue-in-cheek knock at the establishment, as if the rabbit was whispering, ‘Loosen up a bit, boys, you’re all taking this sport a fraction too seriously. We’re all here to do a good job and try to win races, but we can still enjoy ourselves while we’re at it!’ And if the Benetton rabbit was indicating that, then it was echoing a philosophy similar to my own: to live is a tremendous privilege, simply to experience a little of the world and to devour the skills and ideas of those who have gone before. But life is a gift on loan, and in comparison with our surroundings, even a long, full life of a hundred years is but a passing moment. We should be resolute in enjoying the experience of the fleeting time we have, and we should try never to regret a second or waste even a moment of it in bitterness; yesterday has already gone forever.
Oxford, ‘that sweet city with her dreaming spires’, that great and noble seat of English learning. Imagine everything that is both exciting and vibrant about Oxford: the carved façades and exquisite stonework of her majestic college buildings with their long centuries of values and heritage and tradition. Her celebrated Bodleian Library, containing at least one edition of every book published in Britain; the athletic challenge of the Isis river, whose waters flow past the college boat-houses, with teams of devout rowers constantly in training for inter-collegiate competitions and the chance for the lucky few to defend Oxford’s honour against the might of Cambridge. The emotion and inspiration of Mozart’s Requiem heard within the surrounds of the Sheldonian Theatre; the grand elegance of the Randolph Hotel; the intimate snug of the Eagle and Child where C.S. Lewis planned his next excursion to Narnia. Let your mind meander through the glorious sunshine and gentle breeze of a lazy summer’s afternoon spent in the tranquillity of Christ Church Meadows. Imagine all of these splendid things; rejoice in them, treasure them, hold them, lift them to the skies. Now drop them, see them shatter and lose them forever. What you’re left with is a vision of Witney. Witney is a small, dull and utterly uninspiring provincial market town, about twenty minutes’ drive north-west of her infinitely more distinguished relative. And it was to Witney that I drove for my interview with Nigel Stepney.
The one overriding memory I have of that first trip to Benetton was how fantastically uncomfortable the chairs in reception were; black leather and chrome, with the seat raked backwards at a jaunty 45 degrees. And low, so that when you sat down your buttocks slid to the rear and downwards, leaving the feet just touching the carpet. In sharp contrast to the height of the seat, the armrests were incredibly high – only slightly shy of being parallel with the shoulders – while the chair’s back was but a token strip of leather. Thus, if a potential employee, trying to maintain an air of unruffled calm, despite boyish excitement, was foolish enough to slide into one of these contraptions while waiting for the company’s chief mechanic, he would find himself deprived of all leverage from either legs or arms when he tried to stand again. This made for a most undignified initial introduction to his next likely boss. The chairs’ complete inability to offer the user even the most scant comfort left the sitter in no doubt that these design objects were the pinnacle of all that was totally groovy in the art of interior fashion design. Totally groovy and totally useless.
In complete contrast to the pleasing vista of the Onyx manor house, the Benetton factory was located in a small, drab, enclosed industrial estate, just out of the town centre, in an area known as Station Lane. The factory – like the team – had started small and had slowly grown over the years; as soon as an adjoining unit, or one on the other side of the yard, became available Benetton would grab it and take over the lease. Thus over a period of time the factory had expanded in haphazard fashion, giving the impression of a rabbit warren.
The chief mechanic’s office was housed above the race-bay, overlooking the main workshops where the cars were stripped, rebuilt and prepared for the next Grand Prix. Nigel shook my hand with a polite but definite firmness, which immediately conveyed that he was a man who meant business and who didn’t suffer fools lightly. It has always been my experience that a handshake tells worlds about a person’s personality; a weak, limp shake is a sure sign that one is about to embark on a damp and vague conversation, while a bone-crunching clamp is but a reinforcement that it is pointless to proffer any views or opinions in the ensuing exchange of dialogue. Fortunately, Nigel’s handshake fitted neither of these two extremes, but was an impressive I’m-a-busy-man-but-let’s-see-if-we-can-do-business type of a shake.
Nigel had only recently joined Benetton after many years’ service with Team Lotus, where he was Senna’s number-one mechanic before the Brazilian moved to drive for McLaren International. Over the next few months I quickly d
iscovered that Nigel was extremely ambitious and he would only spend an absolute minimum amount of time away from work. He would regularly work from 7 am until 6 pm, go home for an hour and then work from 7 pm until 2 or 3 am the next day; and four hours later he would start again. He simply loved his work: designing pit equipment; using the mills and lathes when the machinists had gone home; reading through endless paperwork; pushing the production staff to come up with the new parts for the cars; badgering the race engineers to finalize their set-up sheets so his mechanics could finish the car builds. It was nonstop, he was always doing something.
Nigel began the interview with a brief history lesson of the company, the rough gist of which, albeit somewhat embellished with a few of my own observations, follows. In 1986 Luciano Benetton, the Italian multi-millionaire and founder of the enormously successful Benetton fashion house, bought the struggling Toleman Formula One team, which he had previously sponsored, finally deciding that it made infinitely more sense to own a team rather than merely rent part of the paint-work. If he owned the cars Luciano could dictate exactly how the livery and the sponsors’ logos should look without having to negotiate a deal with some tediously pretentious marketing assistant with a bulging filofax and a dormant pager. Luciano’s great expertise lies in image and marketing and as an owner, he could carefully cultivate the team’s image to maximize Benetton’s exposure on these 200mph carbon billboards which he had just bought. Plus, owning your own Grand Prix team is an enormous earner (and don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise).
Luciano Benetton is far too rich to run a motor-racing team himself, so he appointed Flavio Briatore to look after it for him. He had been running the New York arm of the Benetton fashion business for Luciano and, by his own admission, he knew absolutely nothing about Formula One. In which case, thought his boss, you will be perfect for the job. The engineers will run the cars, you go in there with a fresh approach and a clear sheet, sell the advertising space and find the money. Fancy the job? Good, you start on Monday. Flavio did a good job too; the cars were bright and colourful, and the money kept coming in, perhaps not massive amounts but enough to keep the team in business.
The Mechanic’s Tale Page 4